Poseur
by sternenacht
Summary: “Signore Abbacchio,” the grandfather’s eyes flicked back and forth between the man standing by reception and the place under the counter where he kept the fee. “You’re… on time.” “Good afternoon,” he stood in front of the cash register and didn’t stare down the old man so much as he simply allowed his height and resting dissatisfied expression do the work for him. “You know


The little trattoria on the corner of Versace and Firenze was always pleasantly empty, though never enough to put it out of business. The smell of baking bread perfumed it, small, dark, tables pressed up against walls with floral arrangements as centerpieces. Leone had only been there for pleasure a few times with Bruno, when his husband strongarmed him into eating something after particularly long bouts of accidental self-starvation. _The American snack food in the pantry is just as filling, and it's several kilometers closer, _he argued, but Bruno saw through his token resistance same as he always did and dragged him out of the house anyway. For business, on the other hand, he showed up every other week on Tuesday at exactly noon in order to collect the protection money owed to Giorno's new Passione. Narancia jabbered at his heels, chattering on and on about some prank he'd played on Fugo. Abbacchio nodded along with the appropriate amount of attention that wouldn't make the ratboy punch him in the stomach to see if he was really listening. He checked his watch as he hovered outside the door; right on time, as usual. Running a hand through his hair, tossing it over his shoulder in an ornery fashion not unlike that of a bad-tempered show pony, he darkened the step no longer and slipped inside with Narancia in tow.

A white-haired (like him, though Abbacchio's was unfortunately a few decades too early) elderly gentleman and a young girl (probably related, they shared the same eyes) perked up at the soft chime of the bell over the door. "Signore Abbacchio," the grandfather's eyes flicked back and forth between the man standing by reception and the place under the counter where he kept the fee. "You're… on time."

"Good afternoon," he stood in front of the cash register and didn't stare down the old man so much as he simply allowed his height and resting dissatisfied expression do the work for him. "You know what I'm here for. Let's make this quick. My Capo tells me you owe less than usual, only a hundred euros. So, if you'll give it here, me and my…" The ratboy was gone, missing, as if he had never been with Leone at all. "Never mind, fork it over and I'll be going."

"But didn't you send someone earlier?" the kid piped up.

Leone blanched. "What?"

"Yeah, we were kind of surprised too. I've been told you're always here at noon, so, boy, you can imagine my surprise when some gangster came in a half hour too soon. Grandpa wasn't even behind the counter yet!" The girl was fearless and didn't even flinch under his glare. Leone would have admired the quality were she not building him a clusterfuck to untangle. "He said you sent him, but we were a little suspicious."

"I didn't send anyone," he stated dumbly.

"What? But he came in here all nuts, with his knife, and the crazy clothes, and the groupies..." Now, that wouldn't do. The district they found themselves in was his. Who did this small-time wannabe think he was, threatening Leone's people? A _child _too? "He said he'd gut me like our fish, and I figured, 'hey, that sounds pretty gangster!'-"

"Bernadetta, stop talking," the grandfather gritted out through his teeth.

Leone bit the inside of his cheek so hard it hurt and swallowed the laugh that threatened to spill. "No, let her continue. A real gangster would've just used a gun."

For someone caught up in the middle of a robbery, Bernadetta looked positively delighted. "Really?"

"Yes."

"Can I see?"

"No." Bernadetta opened her mouth to say something else, but Leone cut her off. "This is irrelevant. I'm going to figure this out."

"Will I have to pay extra if you can't?" the grandfather cut in.

He leaned against the wall, hands clasped behind his back. "That won't happen. If I can't find the delinquent, I'll pay for it, and if I do, I'll get my money either way." Leone grinned; a diabolical expression that didn't belong on his relatively human face. Moody Blues would take care of it. Narancia reappeared outside of the door and he counted himself lucky that he wouldn't need to find the little screwball too. "Expect me back around closing time. I wouldn't want to impair the flow of customers." Pushing off the wall, Leone glided out with a smirk he couldn't wipe off. "I'll be on my way..."

"Mascarpone."

"Have a nice day, Signore Mascarpone."

\--

Moody Blues took the shape of his imposter, a short, skinny, man with all the presence of unsalted chicken broth. If the man was in a police lineup, Leone doubted he'd be able to pick him out. It led him to the kind of place Leone would frequent had Bruno not recast his tarnished soul in gold; a seedy-looking bar that shouldn't have been open this early in the day with unlit neon signs hanging in its windows. The glass was dirty and unwashed and didn't make him particularly optimistic for the inside. "This place is nasty," Narancia made a face and pulled out his knife, Aerosmith hovering behind his shoulders. "Do we really have to go inside?"

"Of course we do. We've got to make an example out of the bastard who thinks he can pull shit on Passione. You're perfect for the job." The timer on Moody Blues's forehead gave them about thirty seconds to the present as it disappeared inside. It blinked out of existence with a faint whir. Their target had to still be here. Leone laid a hand on the pull-outward door and prepared to open it, the other on the handle of his pistol as it gleamed inside his pockets. Narancia didn't need an earthly firearm and instead readied Aerosmith, its guns clacking emptily without bullets in them to shoot. "On three, I'm going to open and go in first. Look for the guy who looks like the boring-ass target and shake him up a little bit. Nothing lethal, but enough to scare him. I'm not worried about retaliation. If he had a firearm, he would have used it on the Mascarpones. We'll drag him outside into that alley over there," Leone jerked his chin to the shady break in the otherwise bright streets, "and get the information we need out of him, then we'll decide what to do from there. Is that a plan?"

"Sure!" It never failed to make something in the back of Leone's rude, brutish, mind whisper _wrong, wrong, wrong, _when the normally carefree Narancia slipped from _child _to _member of the most feared gang in Italy. _Oh well. Narrow brows drew themselves down over violet-fire eyes that hardened under the heat of an order. "Let's do this and make it quick before Fugo eats all of my gelato."

"One."

Abbacchio's fingers tightened around the trigger of his weapon.

"Two."

There it was, the familiar pre-mission buzz he hated.

"Three!"

He flung the door wide open and charged inside, pointing the muzzle of his gun at the bartender as Narancia darted in behind him. "Everybody, on the ground!" he barked. "Hands in the air!"

Leone missed this part. The rush of being the one in control, everyone else watching his hands for the flash of a bullet. It was one of the reasons he never had made a very good cop; always just a bit too eager to unload into whatever criminal dared to act rashly enough to give him a legally defensible probable cause. The bartender, a short, female, blue-haired powerhouse, reached behind her for something (he wouldn't take his chances and find out what). Abbacchio discharged one, two, three, bullets into the ceiling. She yelped and collapsed to the ground with a sob as her legs gave out. Glass shattered somewhere in the background but the noise didn't register in his head. "Don't pull shit. Get out here. If you comply, I won't fire into you." With shaky movements, she staggered to her feet like a newborn deer and leaned herself on the counter on her way to the side of the bar where the two gangsters were. Odds were, she wasn't working here because she had a dearth of other options. There was no sugarcoating it; the "fine establishment" was a shithole The bartender was as close to an innocent as it got. "Hands behind your head," he ordered, and kept the gun pointed at her as he glanced at Narancia.

As usual, the ratboy was doing an excellent job. His typical maniacal energy reined itself in to a slightly more contained thrum about him as Aerosmith's machine guns rattled relentlessly. Neither of the victims in the building (only two; nobody else besides a criminal or a blackout drunk would drink at noon) could see Stands, it seemed, but at the shattering of glass they seemed to get the hint to stay still. "You thought you could get away with fucking over Passione? Huh? We're the only real gangsters on these streets?" he screeched, waving his knife around like a wand. "Wait till our Capo hears about this! You'll be all the way in the ninth circle of Hell by the time he's done with you." Narancia took things a _little _too far, but Abbacchio wouldn't fault him. It had been a while since the boy had seen any real action. He had graduated high school a couple days ago, as per Giorno's request and Buccellati's demand, and had promptly palmed his favorite stolen pocket knife the minute he was out the door on his way to go rob an unlucky corner store.

"You," Abbacchio began, "What did you think would happen if you tried shit?"

The poser in the bar, drink long since dropped and shattered into thousands of shards, made a motion as if he was going to take a swig but then realized he couldn't. "The hell are you two going on about? I run with Passione!"

The corners of Leone's mouth curled up delicately as he drawled, "Really? What division?"

"Bodyguard!" Narancia burst into wild cackles as the poser continued to dig his own grave. "Buccellati's gonna be here any minute, and he's gonna fuck you _up!" _

"That's domestic abuse, I think," said Abbacchio, voice high and dry. The joke was not missed on Narancia, who sniggered.

"And what're you so cocky for?"

"Narancia, have you ever seen this man before?"

"No, I don't think I have," Ratboy played along.

"You're making a powerful enemy, whore. You really want the whole Squad after you?"

"Drop the ruse. See, I'm part of the bodyguard squad, and I've never fuckin' heard of you in my life. Frisk him," he ordered, the last part directed at Narancia, who rifled through his pockets until he found what he was looking for; a driver's license. Passing it off to Abbacchio, he read aloud, "Ziti Primavera, nineteen years old. Jesus Christ, I know drivers' license pictures are terrible all the time, but get this retaken." Moody Blues detached from Leone's silhouette and hovered behind him if Primavera got testy. Then, to his ratboy, he remarked, "Let's switch targets. Take the bartender." In a quick flick of the wrist, he aimed down at Primavera instead. It didn't seem he was a Stand user, as he didn't react to the way Aerosmith hovered overhead, or the dial-tone whirs of Moody. "Now, let's get to the point."

Primavera paled. The truth gently shone upon him. "Look, man, I'm sorry, just don't kill me, I swear I'll never be an issue again."

Abbacchio kicked him in the stomach with the tips of his pointed Oxfords, nasty viper-knife smile tearing viciously through them both. "You're getting a little ahead of yourself. We're just starting. What was the point of shaking down _my _people on _my _turf? You think you're a hot shot?" How dare this street punk involve civilians? Ziti looked right up at him and sputtered out some response he didn't care enough about to focus on. He kicked again. His sadistic streak bled the same bruise purple that was surely blooming spectacularly on Ziti's stomach. "An _actual _answer. You messed up, kid."

"I- I just thought that it'd be funny, and kind of cool, and, uh, you know, get some cash out of it. They were an easy target!" His voice was high and nasally and pissed Leone off. The words slithered out of his mouth like they were coated in grease. "Come on, man, you've done the same shit!" In the background, Narancia groaned, and started some mundane conversation with the bartender. She meekly obliged him. "Nothing personal, ha-ha-haaaaa…."

"This isn't about what I have or haven't done." Vivid memories of his first entry into the gang, where he tried to rob a different unit's capo, came to the forefront even as he buried them, undead little hands poking back up from his memory's grave soil no matter how many times he buried them. "This is about _disrespect. _Give me one good reason why you shouldn't end this day sleeping six feet under."

Primavera scrabbled a little further across the floor like some kind of vermin once he realized his life was in danger, pulling out a blade from somewhere (it kind of looked like one of Narancia's) and Abbacchio scoffed as Primavera tried to get up. A black-taloned hand on the shoulder and an economical shove was all it took to spill him back onto the ground, this time with the weight of a full-grown gangster keeping him there, knee planted in the small of his back, hands squeezing his wrist until Ziti was forced to drop the knife, and he threw it across the room where it hit the wall with a satisfying clatter. "I have the money! Is that what you're after?" he choked desperately.

Abbacchio knew full well the hold he chose could be lethal. Sometimes, it crushed the breath right out of people. That was just the price Ziti would have to pay for his funny business, he supposed. "I'm not after the money, I'm after a guarantee that I won't hear a goddamn peep about you after we're finished here. A couple hundred euros would be nice too. Am I clear?" He rifled through the man's-no, boy's- wallet, and the part of him that cared about the ethics of his career roiled in his stomach at the thought of robbing a kid. It swiftly lost in battle against the part of him that was a petty reptile concerned only with the thought of fulfilling the vendetta called for by his bruised pride. Rifling through the punk's wallet didn't take long, and he didn't even squirm once Leone's hands left his wrists. Leone slipped free three hundred euros; enough to cover the Mascarpones' debt as well as a fee for his troubles, then climbed off of Ziti smoothly. "If you're implicated in another crime, I'll kill you," he said darkly, "Either join Passione officially or get a real job."

Ziti curled up and wheezed on the floor, making a groan of acknowledgement. Abbacchio kicked him one more time for good measure. "Narancia, let's go."

The resident baby of the gang (even though he was older than their Don!) said a reluctant goodbye to his new friend (how did he do that so quickly, befriend a girl he was pointing a gun at?) and trailed behind Abbacchio on his way out.

Grandfather Mascarpone was behind the counter when Leone got back. "Did you… find our robber?"

"Yeah," he said, fighting to keep his voice flat. Mirth shone through regardless, and the old man shot him a look. "We found him. It was easy. He won't be giving you any more trouble." Over the counter, he slid a hundred-euro bill surreptitiously in such a way that it wouldn't be spotted any more. _Consider it an apology, _he thought, and hoped the meaning carried over, _for all the trouble Passione's caused you. _Some people just didn't deserve to live underneath any mafia, even Giorno's velvet-gloved iron fist. "Whose turn is it to cook dinner tonight?" he asked Narancia.

Maybe he'd buy Bruno a nice cologne on the way home.


End file.
